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Arvid Keenan hadn't left his room in two years. His world was confined to four walls, the only space that felt safe enough to hide the scars he couldn't bear to show. The accident had stolen more than just his ability to walk. It had stolen his life. His purpose. His soul.

Before that night, Arvid had been a man of warmth, someone whose smile could brighten the darkest of rooms. He had been the kind of person who would go out of his way to make others feel loved, to give them a sense of belonging. He was gentle, kind, and patient, especially with those he cared about. But the man who existed in that room now was nothing like the one he had once been.

His legs no longer worked, paralyzed from the waist down after the crash, but it was the injury to his spirit that hurt him most. He had once been full of dreams, hopes for the future, and plans to build a life that mattered. Now, all of those things had crumbled beneath the weight of his broken body and shattered heart.

Each day blurred into the next, a continuous cycle of emptiness. The only thing that kept him going was the care of his mother, Evelyn Keenan. She had been by his side since the moment the doctors told her the truth. That her son, once a vibrant young man, would never walk again. That he would never live the life he had planned. But even worse than his physical paralysis was the slow, painful death of the man he had been.

Arvid's eyes lingered on the window, the light from the outside world harsh against the dimness of his room. He had long since stopped looking for anything beyond those walls. The people he once loved-his friends, the acquaintances who had called him for advice, the women who had once adored him-had all faded from his life. They didn't understand. They couldn't. No one could understand what it was like to be trapped in a body that refused to obey, to be a prisoner of your own mind. No one could understand how deeply the accident had broken him.

He hated how people looked at him now-those pitying glances that dripped with sorrow. It was worse than the silence. The silence at least allowed him to pretend he was still in control, still a man. But the pity? The pity was a reminder that he was no longer the person he had been.

"Arvid, lunch is ready," his mother's voice drifted through the door, soft and gentle as always. Her presence had become a comforting constant, a reminder that there was still something in this world worth holding on to. But even her love couldn't lift the weight of the darkness that had settled over his life.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

There was a pause on the other side of the door, and then his mother spoke again, her tone filled with a quiet persistence. "You need to eat, Arvid. You need to take care of yourself."

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to pretend that things were okay. They were far from okay.

He could hear her sigh, that familiar sound that always tugged at his heart. She was the only one who had stuck by him through everything. She had been there when he'd first awoken in the hospital, a broken man-physically, emotionally, spiritually. She had been there when the doctors gave their grim prognosis, when he had cried in his mother's arms for the future he would never have.

"Please, Arvid," she said softly. "For me, just for today, eat something."

With a grunt of frustration, Arvid wheeled his chair toward the door. He was tired of this. Tired of being coddled, tired of being treated like a child. But he also knew, deep down, that he couldn't bring himself to say no to her. Not now. Not when she was the only one who still believed he could be more than the wreckage he had become.